Monday, November 30, 2009

So although this occurred about 2 weeks ago, it has taken me this long in my crazed life to write about the incident. Ridiculous- I know, however it is still completely noteworthy and definitely worth writing about.

Day drinking is absolutely FANTASTIC, however we all know that there comes a time during the day where there is simply no turning back, and sobriety will not be achieved until 5 p.m. the next day. You can do one of two things: 1. Go home and go to bed (never a real option in my book) or 2. continue the drinking binge until the wee hours of the morning. On this particular Saturday, I chose option 2. I had started drinking with my boyfriend and his friends at 12 p.m. because the Vandals were playing Boise State (if you know the rivalry between these 2, you realize why drinking was necessary). So we meandered to a bar still slightly hung over from the night before. I decided to be a champ and the girlfriend that everyone loves because she's drinking Mac & Jack's before noon, and join in the fun. Needless to say, the Vandals loss took a heavy toll on everyone, and there was no better way to fix it than watching the GU game at a different bar, where the Bulldogs would crush whomever the unlucky contender was. More beer drinking ensued . . . followed by more beer drinking during endless games of shuffleboard, etc.

Following these events, my boyfriend and I had agreed to attend one of his roommate's work events at a swanky little night spot where they were providing drinks for the amazing price of $4 each (which is a steal in Seattle). So I was forced to forgo my usual order and accept Vodka Cranberries instead of beer, which I truly do love if they're made correctly. And inevitably this one was no different than all the others you order at a bar that either A. is serving alcohol for half the price, or B. caters to college students who really aren't capable of differentiating between Vodka and Rum because they're so fucking inebriated. It was a rank drink, but I downed 2 in 15 minutes. Then we got bored, so we decided that bar hopping was really the way to go.

Onward we went! . . . to a typical college hangout that appeared as though too many underage kids were present. At this point, I was in the I'm-drunk-and-will-not-listen-to-you phase. As was displayed by my IMMEDIATE need to sit down. Most all of you are aware that if I want to sit, I will sit. And anywhere I goddamn please . . . whether it be on the sewered streets of Poland in a jean mini-skirt or on the bar floor of an overcrowded Seattle favorite, much as I did that evening. I took my post below the bar on the floor, you know the place where your feet go when you're leaning over the bar to get the bartender's attention to order a drink? Yeah, I sat there, with everyone towering above me. I was only encouraged in my decision because my friend C's girlfriend joined me there as well. (I would later find out that my friend, P, apparently finds it hilarious to piss IN bars, ON the floor . . . much like the one I was sitting on. Evidently he had pissed on that very floor at one point in time and advised me that I should refrain from taking refuge there again. I think that might be the only reason I will NEVER sit there again.)

Anyway, during my little pow-wow with C's girfriend an incident occurred in which I took great offense. I should actually rephrase that . . . DRUNK ELISE took offense to this . . . SOBER ELISE would have said, "what a dumb bitch" and maybe said something to this chick's face, but feathers would have remained in tact. However, upon being pulled up off the ground by N (also known as boyfriend), he informed me casually that some stupid girl had tried to come and talk to him and C while us girls were not present. He was saying it simply because he thought it was funny, little did he know that the following information would have dire consequences for the girl in question. I am told the conversation went like this:

N: Some stupid girl came up and talked C and I's ears off while you girls were gone.
Me: Really? What did she say?
N: Well she kept trying to talk to us and ask what your names were. When we kept ignoring her and not answering she flipped out and called me a douchebag and said that I probably hadn't been laid in over a year
Me: WHAT?!?!?! YOU GOT LAID LIKE AN HOUR AGO!!! Where the fuck is she?!

Yes, I actually sputtered the truth out loud, in the crowded bar in defense of my boyfriend who so clearly did not give a shit. I decided to go on a quest to find this ridiculous girl who probably had never been laid in her LIFE. Once I saw her I found even more justification for what I was about to do. She was wearing a disgusting bright pink floral shirt (the kind we wore when we went to Hawaii when we were 8 years old), a jean skirt (that appeared to be from Wet Seal or something . . . ps: its fucking NOVEMBER so why are you wearing a jean skirt?!), black tights, and black boots. Any of my close friends will tell you that I am extremely judgmental when it comes to clothing. If someone is so clearly not dressed appropriately, I will most like say something to the individual beside me. People actually love me for it, but that's neither here nor there. The fact that this chick was wearing that outfit was just the icing on the cake. Plus, she was fat. So I decided that I would pour the last half of my pint into her purse. You know, to teach her a lesson (seriously Elise? wow). Anyway, you shouldn't be surprised that that's exactly what I did. I walked up to her on the dance floor when she wasn't looking, and expertly poured all my beer into her purse, like I was sharing. And I got away with it too . . .

Obviously, my boyfriend and his friends found this hilarious and still proceed to talk about it to this day. I guess it's a pretty good testament to my feelings for N. But even I agree that I took it a little too far. I promise, I'll try to be better next time ;)

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Please refrain from continually choosing to stretch inappropriately a mere 3 inches away from me while in the stretching room in the gym. I do not enjoy seeing your icky, gangly man thighs as a result of your all too-short purple shorts, which you still choose to wear every single day. I only hope you wash them just as much. And although I respect your decision to wear your gayness loud and proud, the Obama rainbow shirt has got to go. It is too short and too tight. P.S. Obama won, so shove it. I would also appreciate it if you would cease from doing headstands in the middle of the room while talking on your iphone. We are not in your native country and therefore do not condone doing weird-ass poses in public places (such as the individuals located on the grassy knoll at Pike Place Market do . . . on second thought, maybe you should just ditch the gym membership, as all you seem to be doing there is stretching your body where it need not be stretched, and join them instead?). Additionally, I take offense to the fact that you think it is perfectly natural and acceptable to spread eagle your legs up against the public mirror while lying on your back on the gym floor. Nobody wants to see that. Put it away, you're not that flexible anyway.

Needless to say, I can only assume that you are one of those people who thinks exposed, full-out nudity is okay in the gym locker room. I also have a HUGE issue with your type of people. I am making a plea for the gentlemen being exposed to the uglier parts of you to STOP IT! Hairy ass cracks, sagging skin, and cottage cheese in places where it most definitely should NOT be are all things people will vomit upon once they are exposed to it. Just because you are with "your type" and you all have the "same parts", it is still gross to be greeted with an ass wave upon entry to the room. I won't be hypocritical here . . . the same goes for women. I do not enjoy looking at your man thighs anymore than I enjoy turning away from my locker to see the hairy creature growing between the I'm-so-free-and-natural girl's legs. I think it would be best for all involved if you and everyone else, practiced a bit more modesty . . . if not for the sake of keeping everyone from vomiting all over the place.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

A repeat offense occurred this weekend . . . on none other than the evening of Halloween, while surrounded by flappers and Colonel Mustards in a crowded bar in Fremont. And of course it happened to me . . . again, because I don't learn from my mistakes. Or I drink too much. Maybe we should go with the latter . . . just to make myself feel better and pretend that I'm not that much of an idiot. Anyway, you, my friends, are very lucky because this particular incident segues quite well into a series of stories that I will deem 'The Kells Chronicles,' so really, you're getting 2 stories in 1 (actually- you're getting 5 in 1, but that doesn't matter. Just be grateful your life isn't mine.)

On Saturday night after too many Pink Panty Droppers and numerous failed attempts to secure chow mein (don't ask . . . for whatever reason, I was desperately craving the stuff. My dear friend S was unfortunately on 'elise duty' as my roommate had gone home gravely ill and my boyfriend was out of town. So he was forced to suffer through my whimpering cries for greasy noodles. Eventually S was able to shut me up by providing me with mediocre (at best) frozen pizza), the evening was coming to a close and I was obviously acting as such. While nursing a 40 of PBR (apparently I was pretending to be in college again . . . I know that my cousin D is judging me heavily for publishing this, as he is the ultimate beer snob, and looks down upon drinking such revolting liquid) I secured my seat on the bar stool by anchoring the heels of my 4-inch peep-toes on one of the rungs of the stool. A few minutes later, my friend C showed up to the bar, who I had been unnecessarily freaking out over because he was nowhere to be found (for all of 15 minutes . . . which is basically an eternity in drunk elise time). I, of course, decided that I had to hug him immediately if not sooner and leaned forward to give my best hug ever. In doing so, I clearly neglected the fact that my heels were still wedged on the stool and the red sea departed and I proceeded to fall (in what seemed like the slowest slow motion ever) on both my knees on the floor, with nothing and no one to break my fall (which is pretty amazing considering how packed the bar actually was). Immediately blood seeped from both my knees through the fabric of my white dress. A throng of people suddenly surrounded me to help me up, and all I could say in response to their 'are you okay?' inquiries was, 'it's fine . . . this has happened before.' And with that I give you . . . The Kells Chronicles:

1. The barstool:

Really I should just say 'see above' but that would be boring. So indulge me. Last February, my girlfriends and I fell in love with a local Irish bar called Kells. It is fantastic. If you ever want to hear live Irish music and see a hot little Irish girl dance (our friend M is amazingly good at this and has actually been approached while dancing in the bar to join a Women's Irish Dancing Group), you should go here. Anyway, pretty much the same thing that happened above, happened here. Except I was leaning over the bar to give the bartender my phone number and then fell. Yeah, I was real classy that night. Oh- of course he never called. This was also the same night that I yelled at a man for wearing a Hawaiian shirt and proclaiming him as 'old.' Q was super embarrassed and kept telling me to stop. One thing about drunk elise . . . she really doesn't listen- so you have to actually force her out of a situation, rather than just tisk-tisk-ing her.

2. Sweat and napkin glitter:

A few weeks later, Q was in town so we went back to our favorite abode to get more free drinks (the bartender there is way too good to us) and try and pick up hot men . . . but basically we were there for the drinks. Anyway, most of you should be well aware of the fact that my body overheats much more than most. And when you are freezing, I am most likely opening up the window and sticking my head in the freezer while exclaiming, 'omg it's SO HOT in here!' I like to joke that I'm premenopausal . . . but seriously, I think I am. Either that or my body temp is just off the charts and I am somehow able to survive. Anyway, as a result of this over-heating issue, I have a tendency to perspire in crowded, sweaty, dancing bars . . . a bit more than most. This of course happened this evening (see photo) at which point I just had to ask the bartender, Joe, for some napkins with which to soak up the brita filter that was choosing to pour out of my head. As a result of the dabbing, and completely unbeknownst to me, little pieces of these napkins chose to remain plastered to my face and neck, thus enhancing my outfit and making me look that much better. Q and Mac eventually realized this and saved me from looking like a complete moron the entire evening, but not before openly laughing at me. When we walked into Kells the next time, upon walking though the door and waving at Joe, he greeted me by waving napkins at me. Bastard.

3. 'Ew, what is that smell?!':

About a month later we were perched at our usual spot at the bar with our favorite bartender, when I decided that it was really important for me to lean over the flaming tea-light candles on the bar in order to get Joe's attention. In doing so I apparently caught my hair on fire because Joe made a very surprised and scary look on his face and then proceeded to clap his hands multiple times over my hair. The result looks-wise wasn't bad . . . the smell, however, was horrific and naturally multiple inquiries rose . . . 'ew, what is that smell?!' And I was in prime-time drinking mode that night and so very loudly and obnoxiously whined out loud . . . 'IT'S ME!!!!! MY HAIR CAUGHT ON FIRE!!!!!!' :( I think I shut everyone up but at that point I most definitely did not care and felt it necessary to share my story with the innocent bystanders who really didn't give a shit.

I know it's amazing that we kept going back there after all this, but we seriously love it too much to give it up (and I apparently just don't give a damn about what happens to me or how much self mutilation I have to go through to enjoy my time there). Although we've neglected it since July . . . it might be time for a trip down memory lane. Maybe I'll have an addition to The Kells Chronicles come Monday ;)